


Shooting gloves and champagne glasses

by arthur_177



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: 'Clint feels out of place in high society' trope, First Kiss, Get Together, M/M, avengers kinkmeme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 11:05:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthur_177/pseuds/arthur_177
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint fits in well enough in a lot of places; high society charity balls are not one of them.</p><p>Unfortunately, that is exactly where he is, and that is exactly where he is making a fool of himself.</p><p>To add insult to injury, Coulson is there to witness it, and of the many things he perhaps wouldn't mind revealing to Coulson, this is definitively not one of them.</p><p>Or: a fic built around the quote “I'm surrounded by classy dudes... and then there's me.”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shooting gloves and champagne glasses

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an avengers kinkmeme prompt which had Jeremy Renner's quote “I'm surrounded by classy dudes... and then there's me.” and wanted Clint to use the line in any context. (http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/11065.html?thread=23469881#t23469881)
> 
> Somehow, it ended up being Clint/Coulson which tends to happen to things I write; I'm not sure if it works here or if the pacing is a bit off as a result, so concrit is always welcome. 
> 
> And yes, the first line is a reference to Hawkeye #2.

It's like that time with him and Kate and that hotel thing, him in a tuxedo and horribly uncomfortable, and everyone else in their element and having a hell of a time. He tugs at his bowtie and tries to remember to smile and not grip his glass too tightly.

No, actually, this is worse. Because he wasn't lying when he said that he didn't want to sleep with Kate Bishop – and as much as you don't want to come across as a moron in front of someone who's basically like your little sister, it's a given that sometimes, it happens, and you take the mockery in stride. It's ok, Clint can live with that. He'd do the same thing for her. 

Phil Coulson, on the other hand – well. That's a slightly different matter. Consequently, Clint is very aware of how out of place he looks, feels and is at one of those charity reception things he now has to go to because he's an Avenger and Avengers seem to be doing that sort of thing when they're not saving the world or keeping a low profile because of the WSC. With the exception of the other Avengers, the odd SHIELD agent, and Pepper Potts, he has no idea who any of these people are, and yet he seems to be 'Mr Barton' or 'Clint' to every one of them and expected to answer questions and make small-talk and say things like 'congratulations on your election, Senator, that was a very successful campaign' or 'Your proposed reforms for the University are excellent, Professor – I was wondering if you could expand on your ideas for the lepton research centre?'. He doesn't remember when there was an election in which state, he isn't sure which university or why he's supposed to have read bulletins for university reforms, hell, he doesn't even know what a lepton is. Alien Invasions, Doombots in the basement of Stark Tower, multiplying wiggly things looking like something out of Call of Cthulhu on the Helicarrier – that he can deal with. A tuxedo and small-talk with the rich and famous, not so much.  
Especially not without making a fool out of himself, and he's already confused an actress for a senator and a senator for the owner of a nation-wide fast-food chain. The only reason he hasn't tried to figure out a way to strangle himself with his bow-tie yet is that at least Coulson didn't witness those moments, and Pepper had taken mercy on him and proceeded to waltz him through the room with a radiant smile and a quiet running commentary on the people he should at least be able to vaguely identify. Small mercies. 

He feels slightly less like hanging himself with expensive fashion accessories when he manages to correctly identify the author of a successful yet somewhat controversial book of which he has even read the summary at some point. He even managed to do that while Coulson is within hearing distance, so he congratulates himself on a bullet well dodged. Naturally, this improved mood lasts a full ten seconds before the author with a much too delighted smile asks him what his opinion on the obligations of writers for contemporary society in light of recent events and general humanitarian concerns was. The small group surrounding them at that point, which Clint thinks include two professors of applied genius, the current world leader in leukaemia research, and a philanthropist slash opera singer of world renown, turns to him to listen to his answer. As if that wasn't bad enough, so does Coulson. 

Clint isn't stupid. He may not have a formal education, and he can neither confirm nor deny that he sometimes consults a dictionary or google when confronted with some of the memos Stark sends, but then he has it on good authority that Cap does the same. But that's ok – if they'd needed a team of superscientists, they'd have asked someone else. But they needed a guy with damn good aim, and that's what he's here for. That doesn't mean that he can't make informed decisions about field tactics or about which film critic is trying too hard to get a better job. He has good intuition, he's taught himself a lot of things over the past couple of years, and he's more than a face with a pretty bow, as he likes to point out to Coulson sometimes [Coulson almost laughed once. A good memory is another thing Clint has for himself.]. 

But this, this is beyond him. This is something for people like Stark, who thrive on this sort of attention, Tasha, whose job it is to fit in in situations like this, people like Pepper, who seems to be a mixture of the two, and Coulson, who knows everything and can not only kill people with paperclips but also talk to senators and professors and authors. 

Clint tries very hard to smiles at the author and says that it is an interesting and important question which he'd have to contemplate further in order to answer it appropriately, and if he'd excuse him, he was overdue for a check-in with security to make sure no supervillains were trying to crash the party. It's not his best excuse, and he doesn't think anyone buys it, but it gives him an excuse to run.

He feels Coulson's eyes on his back, but he doesn't try to think too hard about the fact that Coulson has now seen him act like an idiot and then run for it like a coward. Not his best moment, all things considered, but then events like this one are pretty high up on the list of things he's not at his best with.

 

Coulson finds him two glasses of champagne later on the roof. He's taken off the bow tie and put on his shooting glove, because he wasn't exactly allowed to bring a bow to a reception and this is the closest thing he has on him that makes him feel more like himself and less like an uneducated screw-up surrounded by geniuses and millionaires. Coulson is a lot of things, and one of them is being Clint's handler, so he just hands Clint another glass and sits down next to him without commenting on his absence from the party or the tie's absence from Clint's neck. 

They sit like that for a while, and it's good. It's cold outside, not the stuffy warmth of the party, and it's quiet. The night sky is clear and doesn't close in on Clint like the groups of famous people he'd never heard of did. It's like a stake-out, like a mission, just Coulson and him. 

Clint sighs. “Sorry about that, sir” Coulson looks out into the night and hints of a smile play around the corner of his eyes. Clint notices. He's cataloged the hints by now. “No need to apologize, Barton. I wouldn't mind hearing what that was about, though.” 

Clint has had an awful night and a bit to drink and made a fool of himself in front of one of the people he cares more about than most, and afterwards those are the things he blames for actually answering rather than making a joke about it and playing the long-suffering, finally apprehended 'I guess you've come to arrest me and throw me back into the torturous depths of the party, Agent' fugitive of high society charity balls. 

“It's just.. These things, they're Stark's field, or Tashas, or yours, sir – but me? I'm the ex-carnie with good aim, not someone to show around in high society. This is second nature to Stark and Pepper, and they thrive on it, and Tasha's been trained for this and enjoys playing with people's expectations. Banner is a genius and used to conferences and stuff, so he gets along well enough, Thor loves the party and the boasting aspect, and holding court is something Princes of Asgard do anyway - even Cap can smile though the whole thing handle himself as if he wasn't decades out of tune with current affairs. But when I think about what a figure I must cut, all I can think is, I'm surrounded by classy dudes... and then there's me. Must be painfully obvious to everyone what a screw-up I am in comparison to them, and how very out of place at a thing like this. And I don't give a damn what any of the high and mighty think about the kid from Iowa who's saving the world with a bow, sir, but you.. I don't want you to think I'm a screw-up who can't even tell the difference between a famous senator and a famous actress, that I'm the type of asset who is so useless for anything but shooting that I can't even bullshit my way through a conversation about art's impact on contemporary whatever.” 

Coulson is quiet for a moment, probably thinking that over. Clint thinks it over, winces, and considers it a win that at least he didn't end with 'also, I'm hopelessly in love with you, sir, and now that you've witnessed how terribly unclassy I am I'll never stand a chance'. He braces himself for the polite, impersonal 'SHIELD doesn't want you for your small-talk skills, Agent Barton, we hired a sniper, that's all you need to be concerned with' reply that must almost inevitably follow a rant like his.  
Then again, Clint should know by now that Coulson doesn't do inevitable, so what Coulson says instead is “Agent Barton, if you honestly think that your reply to the author of a frankly dreadfully bad book is going to determine what I think of you, then I feel the need to inform you that you are indeed an idiot. However, I also owe you an apology and must conclude that I have been a bad handler, since you should never have emerged with the opinion that I did not fully agree with your self-assessment that you are 'more than a face with a pretty bow'.” 

Clint looks a bit sheepishly down at his hands after that. Flexes his left hand, watches the leather of the glove fold into its well-worn creases, and back again. Coulson finally looks at him and adds, quietly, “Why does it matter to you what I think, Agent Barton?” 

Clint has an answer to that. It's a carefully constructed one, about the importance of trust, and that people used to abandon him but that Coulson didn't, and that he is a damn good handler, and that he doesn't want to disappoint him because Coulson's done a lot of things for him over the years. It's the truth, too. Clint doesn't really lie to Coulson. He just filters out a lot, like the part where he'd decided that he'd gotten himself hurt by falling in love too often and was done with relationships, except there'd been the day in Leyden when he'd asked Coulson why he'd bought a bag of tulip bulbs, of all things, and for some reason it was when Coulson'd said 'Any details concerning gardening habits of SHIELD directors, the existence of which I can neither confirm nor deny, are highly classified, Agent', that Clint had choked on his Chocomel and realized he'd been in love with his handler for years. Coulson had later cleared up that the tulips were, in fact, for his sister, but the love thing realization had refused to clear up.

In retrospect, he doesn't quite remember what exactly he answered, but filtering or not, what happens is that Coulson puts down his glass and somehow Clint's hand ends up at the back of Coulson's neck, Coulson's arm around Clint's shoulder, and they are kissing. 

Huh. Well. 

And then Coulson takes the bow-tie from Clint's pocket, puts it back on his neck carefully and neatly, picks up his glass and says, “If you're convinced that I think highly – very highly, in fact - of you even if your self-perception could use some work, Agent Barton, you are encouraged to join me to rejoin the party. And it may please you to know that as you currently look as disheveled as some of the other 'classy dudes' in the habit of sneaking out of parties and engaging in entanglements on rooftops, you'll fit right in.” 

Clint is good at following orders, at least when they come from Coulson (well, most of the time). He picks up his glass, not bothering to take off the shooting glove, and follows Coulson back to the reception. He finds a spot in a corner where nobody approaches him to mingle and watches Coulson dance with Pepper. They're both good dancers (expectedly in the case of Pepper; unexpectedly in the case of Coulson), and they fit right in, Pepper's designer dress, Coulson's suit that cost more than his bow. Tony's tuxedo probably cost even more, and he's entertaining a group of models as Bruce discusses research with a group of scientists. Tasha is talking to the opera singer philanthropist, her jewelery shining in the light of the fake chandeliers. Classy. 

But classy isn't everything. The shooting glove is wonderfully out of place as he curls his fingers around the stem of the champagne glass. He smiles. Sure, he's at a party surrounded by classy dudes. 

But then, there's him.


End file.
